Bittersweet Memories: A Memoir

By Emily Allen Garland

Bittersweet Memories is an intriguing memoir that begins when the author is visited by an angel as an infant. At age sixteen, she leaves her hometown of Milledgeville, GA. to enroll in Central State College in Wilberforce, Ohio. Being away from home for the first time at an early age, the young Emily is tempted into risk taking behavior that comes dangerously close to causing expulsion from the school that she loves.

The story describes the struggles of a strong black woman who relies on faith in God to overcome many obstacles and temptations. She builds a career in social work that empowers young single mothers while caring for two children of her own and a disabled husband.

This memoir also includes a riveting story of love and betrayal that is sure to appeal to readers who enjoy a great love story as well as those who are combining careers with family responsibilities. The major setting of the book is Detroit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2004
• ISBN: 9781468518696

Emily Allen Garland

Baby Heart is the first purely fictional novel written by Emily Allen Garland. She completed her first book, Giving a Voice to the Ancestors, in 2001. The book is based on the lives of the author’s ancestors and is considered historical fiction. It has received praise from readers, a five star rating at Amazon.com and a commendation and favorable review from Writers Digest. Garland published a second book, Bittersweet Memories: A Memoir in 2004. Garland has published professional articles in the Child Welfare Journal, NABSW Journal, and the Detroit News Sunday Magazine. She has appeared on numerous local television and radio programs as well as several national TV programs, including the CNN news. She received the Women in Journalism Award from the American Business Women’s Association in 2006.    Garland is a member of three writer’s groups: The West Bloomfield Writers Group, Motown Writers, and PASAWOR Writers in Pasco County, FL. The author has received recognition and numerous awards for her achievements in social work. Garland has lectured and led workshops throughout America on the topic of Adolescent Pregnancy. She has also worked as an Adjunct Professor at the Wayne State University School of Social Work teaching Child Welfare.  Born and raised in the south, she is a world traveler who makes her home in West Bloomfield, Michigan.   

Book preview

Bittersweet Memories

A Memoir

Emily Allen Garland

Title_Page_Logo.ai

About the Book

Bittersweet Memories is an intriguing memoir that begins when the author is visited by an angel as an infant. At age sixteen, she leaves her hometown of Milledgeville, GA. to enroll in Central State College in Wilberforce, Ohio. Being away from home for the first time at an early age, the young Emily is tempted into risk taking behavior that comes dangerously close to causing expulsion from the school that she loves.

The story describes the struggles of a strong black woman who relies on faith in God to overcome many obstacles and temptations. She builds a career in social work that empowers young single mothers while caring for two children of her own and a disabled husband.

This memoir also includes a riveting story of love and betrayal that is sure to appeal to readers who enjoy a great love story as well as those who are combining careers with family responsibilities. The major setting of the book is Detroit.

About the Author

Writer, professor and social worker, Emily Allen Garland was born and grew up in Milledgeville, Georgia. She received her B.A. degree from Central State College in Wilberforce, Ohio and her MSW from Wayne State University in Detroit where she has resided since her graduation from college.

Garland is the author of Giving a Voice to the Ancestors, published in 2002 which is a family saga based on the lives of her ancestors that has received wide readership and praise. She has also written and published several professional articles related to her social work career.

The author currently makes her home in West Bloomfield, MI. and New Port Richey FL. She may be contacted by email at [e-mail]

© 2003, 2005 Emily Allen Garland. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/20/04

ISBN: 1-4208-0011-6 (sc)

ISBN: 1-4208-0012-4 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-1869-6 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

In memory of Samuel Lewis Gee,

a great athlete and gentleman.

Contents

About the Book

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Chapter One A Collection of Early Memories

Chapter Two Mama & Daddy

Chapter Four From High School to College

Chapter Five Cafeteria Queen

Chapter Six Dating Games

Chapter Seven Getting to Know Him

Chapter Eight Junior Pains

Chapter NineThe Summer of ’54

Chapter Ten Senior Doldrums

Chapter Eleven Job Search

Chapter Twelve Working woman

Chapter Thirteen Commitment

Chapter Fourteen Newlyweds

Chapter Fifteen A New Life

Chapter Sixteen The End of Life

Chapter Seventeen Back to Work and Sam

Chapter Eighteen Discovery

Chapter Nineteen Happy New Year

Chapter Twenty On My Own

Chapter Twenty-onePeonies and Champagne

Chapter Twenty-two Moving on Down the Line

Chapter Twenty-three A Call at Midnight

Chapter Twenty-five Dèjà vu

Chapter Twenty-six Going Back Home

Chapter Twenty-seven Marriage and Happiness

Chapter Twenty-eight Balancing Family and Career

Chapter Twenty-nine Climbing the Career Ladder

Chapter Thirty The Home Front

Chapter Thirty-one A Society in Turmoil

Chapter Thirty-two Getting the Plum

Chapter Thirty-three A Stormy Year

Chapter Thirty-four Release Planning

Chapter Thirty-fiveGoing Through Changes

Chapter Thirty-sixLosing Loved Ones

Chapter Thirty-seven Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter Thirty-eightLula Belle

Chapter Thirty-nine The Golden Years

Author’s Note

Photo%231%20Samuel%20Lewis%20Gee.jpg

Sammy Gee, captain and guard

of Harlem Globetrotters Western Unit, circa 1950

Acknowledgements

"You are a mist that appears for a little while and

then vanishes."

James 4:14

The above scripture has resonated in my mind for a long time; hence the desire to leave tangible evidence of my earthly journey.

Through writing this book, I have relived my entire life and placed it in perspective. Every life is unique and worthy of recording.

First, I thank my husband Norman Garland and my children: Dana Allen Palmer and Suzanne Palmer-Bobbitt for allowing me to feel free enough to share the story of my life.

My sister Elaine Pritchard acted as my first reader, offering suggestions and support for this project. Thanks Elaine for always being there for me through my many endeavors.

Freddy Gee, my college chum, reviewed a chapter and encouraged me to complete and publish the manuscript. Freddy, also a poet and songwriter, is the brother of Sammy Gee.

My creative writing instructor Fran Knorr and members of my writing class: Virginia Annas, Doreen Lichtman, Pearl Syerson, Beverly Viedrah and Marty Toohey listened patiently while I read excerpts and offered valuable suggestions for polishing my budding memoir.

I have been contacted by numerous readers of my first book, Giving a Voice to the Ancestors, asking if I planned to publish a sequel. Their interest in another book has been encouraging.

Last but not least, the kind, professional guidance of my editor, Henri Forget, was most helpful to the completion of this project.

Chapter One

A Collection of Early Memories

It was late summer in 1935.

I lay in the middle of the bed, legs and arms flailing involuntarily. Screwing up my face, I prepared to let out a wail that would bring someone into the room to check on my needs. I can’t remember if it was hunger, a wet diaper or loneliness that I was responding to. What I do remember is this— before I could cry out, she came and bent over me, enveloping me in her radiance. She was tall, and wore a white dress. Her long, sandy brown hair hung down her back and although she never touched me or said a word, the warmth that I felt from her presence fulfilled all of my needs and I drifted off to sleep basking in the glow that she radiated.

When I learned to walk and talk, I began searching for the lady in white. I asked my grandmother where she was but she knew no one who fit the description of the woman in white. Other people didn’t have a clue who I was talking about, especially when I told them I was an infant, not even old enough to turn over when she came into my room and bent over me. My mother told me it may have been something that I dreamed.

One day I looked above a bed in my mother’s house and there hung a picture of two small children crossing a rickety bridge while an angel with outstretched wings hovered over them. The woman I had seen did not have wings but she resembled the angel in the picture my mother had recently bought and hung over the bed more closely than any other likeness I had ever seen.

Today, I still can envision clearly the woman in white leaning over me, exuding her warmth and protection. I know now that she is my guardian angel who hovers over me always, making me feel peaceful, serene and safe from harm.

I was sitting on a small bench, as close as I could get to the apron of the wood burning stove. It was a cold winter day; the drafts found their way through the cracks in the rough-hewn farmhouse.

She was wearing a long dress with the hem reaching her high-top shoes, and a green felt hat, called a skullcap. Leaning down, she smiled lovingly and gently asked, Bay, do you want a cup of warm cocoa?

I looked up at her and nodded, yes.

Soon she was placing the cup of cocoa in my hands and I was filled with warmth as I sipped the sweet, rich chocolate. Yet the warmth I felt came from more than the cocoa; it was the unconditional love emanating from the giver that was most warming.

Then the short, bronze-colored man entered the kitchen, smiled at me as I still sat cozy and warm by the stove. He looked adoringly at the tall, fair lady in the green felt hat and asked, Annie, is supper ready yet?

I thought he called her Nanny, so my first words were Nanny and Papa. They would have many names that I gave them through the years. When she tucked me in at night and called me her little duckling, I responded by calling her Mother Duck and continued to call her Duck until I was grown, even though my siblings called her Big Mama. My sister, Honey, and I made up a name for Papa, referring to him as Nip for many years.

They both gracefully accepted the names that we assigned them. They were our grandparents, Tom and Annie Butts. No matter what names we called them, we always knew who they were. They were LOVE.

My family had serious concerns about my failure to walk even though I was close to two years old. I never crawled, instead, I sat on the floor, placed my feet together and bounced along. They were always picking splinters from my behind and had tried everything to start me walking. My brother learned that I was afraid of feathers, and so he sneaked up behind me one day and tickled my nose with one. Terrified, I jumped up and took several steps before I flopped back down on the floor demanding that he put the feather away or I would tell on him. I could speak very well, constructing complete sentences.

Then one day as I sat in the long splintery hallway of my grandparents’ farmhouse, we had a visitor. The excitement his visit caused was like pandemonium for me sitting on the floor, unable to see much more than legs. I heard them calling him Uncle Rob as they swirled around and above me. I decided I must get up in order to see the center of all of the commotion. I pulled up by holding on to someone’s legs and toddled off in the direction of the one they were all huddled around. He saw me coming toward him, unsteady as a drunken sailor on my newfound feet and legs. The others saw me too and yelled out in unison, Bay Chile is walking.

Uncle Rob, who was tall, dark and handsome, swooped me up into his strong arms, kissing and hugging me. I was so involved in the moment that I forgot my fear of walking entirely. When he finally put me down, I toddled away and continued to walk. I never saw Uncle Rob again; he died shortly after his return to Washington, D.C. from an unsuccessful surgical procedure, but I never forgot him. I think because of him, I have always been partial to tall, dark, handsome men.

On Sunday evenings we gathered in the front room — Big Mama, Papa, and I. In the summer, my sister, Honey, and brother, Louie who was always called, Brother, also gathered with us to listen to the gramophone and have cake and lemonade. First we listened to Christian music— The Old Rugged Cross and Rock of Ages. After listening to the Christian music, Big Mama served cake and lemonade. Honey and I always drank from our Gene Autry glasses. The glasses actually were decorated with Mexican Flamingo dancers. We called them Gene Autry glasses because we were allowed to listen to the music of the singing cowboy while we ate our cake and drank our lemonade that always tasted sour because of the sweet caramel cake.

Old Faithful was our favorite cowboy song. Being the youngest, at six, I got to wind up the gramophone before each record and winding up for Old Faithful was a real treat. Brother was partial to it also. We visualized the handsome cowboy on his beautiful white horse who was promised pastures white with clover when he was too old to round up cows anymore. The other songs we listened to were sad. One was about a man, apparently being sent away to prison, who admonished his young son to mind his mother and be the man that his daddy might have been.

Honey, who was eleven, became bored with our Sunday evening music. One day while we were visiting our cousins, she traded one of our records for one of theirs and brought it home with her. It was a blues song and my first introduction to black recorded music. The singer was Bea Booze, one of the earliest blues singers. The song was a racy number that said: Don’t feel my leg, ’cause if you feel my leg, you gonna feel my thigh and if you feel my thigh, you may go up high.

Having heard the song at our cousin’s house, Honey knew better than to play it at our Sunday evening gatherings. She slipped into the front room one day and was playing the record when Big Mama poked her head into the room and asked, What did she say?

Honey quickly made up a clean verse that rhymed with the one on the record. After that she hid the record under the bed and we never played it again, out of respect for Big Mama and her Madame Two Prong switch that would sting Honey’s legs if Big Mama ever figured out what Bea Booze was saying. Much later, when I was a teenager, I heard that recordings by Bea Booze were collectors items and could fetch a pretty penny. I looked in the box under the bed where we had placed the record, many years before, and to my surprise it was still there, albeit too badly warped to bring me a fortune.

Chapter Two

Mama & Daddy

A pear tree graced each side of the long concrete walkway leading to our front porch when I was a child. One tree was male, the other female. They loved each other very much but their leafy green limbs couldn’t reach across the wide walkway allowing them to touch. So they relied on bees and the gentle spring breezes to carry the sweet pollen from the male to the female tree and back, causing the trees to produce an abundance of pears.

My mother gave buckets of pears to our neighbors. Unlike my grandmother she was not into canning. All of the pears that we didn’t eat or weren’t given away, Mama cooked in pies. She used a large, mottled gray, oval pie-pan in which to bake the delicious pear cobblers.

I was in elementary school.

On school days when she had baked a pear pie, the sweet aroma of pears baking, mixed with nutmeg and buttery pie crusts wafted through the air and into my nose, as soon as I turned the corner on Wall Street, enticing me the rest of the way home.

Mama usually opened the oven door and lifted the hot pie out as I entered the kitchen. Smudges of flour could be seen on her face and apron. Of course, I couldn’t eat any pie until I cleaned my dinner plate. On those days, Mama had no trouble getting me to eat my vegetables. The anticipation of warm, sweet, pear pie, served with a glass of milk—so cold that beads of sweat formed on the outside of the glass— was enough to make me gobble down every scrap of food without complaining.

Rainy days and Saturdays bring back memories of special times spent with Daddy. Whenever it rained so hard he was afraid I would get soaking wet while walking home from grade school, he waited for me in the doorway of the school, wearing a big, yellow raincoat. I walked under his raincoat with his arm around me all the way home while he held a large, black umbrella over the both of us.

Daddy and I spent many rainy spring evenings on the front porch playing checkers while we inhaled the delicate fragrance of the pear trees in blossom. Occasionally Daddy let me win a game, although at the time I thought I had outfoxed him.

On Saturday mornings, if he didn’t have to work, Daddy usually invited me to go to the picture show with him to see a cowboy movie at the Campus or Co-ed theaters in downtown Milledgeville, Georgia. We climbed the stairs to the balcony reserved for colored people where we watched the movies. I never liked western movies but I didn’t let Daddy know that. The fun was being with him.

Photo%232%20Evangeline%20Butts%20Allen.jpg

Evangeline Butts Allen

(Mama), circa 1962;

Photo%233%20Louie%20C.%20Allen.jpg

Louie Allen (Daddy), circa

1923

Chapter Three

First Kiss! First Love?

My first kiss would be unforgettable, I thought; the earth would stand still and the angels in heaven would bend low to serenade us. It wasn’t like that at all. My first kiss can best be described by one word—repulsive!

I was fourteen years old when I began my junior year of high school in 1949. Like the rest of my classmates and friends, I could hardly wait for school to start. We all had had a boring summer with nothing to do in the small town of Milledgeville except walk downtown on Saturdays after our chores were completed, stroll the streets with our girlfriends, and hang out in the Old Capitol Drugstore or A&A Cafe, slurping milkshakes and munching hamburgers. We dreamed of meeting interesting new boys downtown, but that never happened.

The first day of school was always exciting, with the girls checking out each other’s new outfits and scanning the school grounds for new boys. When I arrived on the first day after Labor Day, my friends were already in a small group whispering about the new boy.

He wasn’t exactly new.

He had lived with his parents in Milledgeville until his mother, a schoolteacher, divorced his father and moved to New York City, taking her son with her when he was in grade school.

His name was Evan Kenneth Walker, but it seemed that everyone added their own spin to his name. Some called him E. K., others called him Kenny, and a few girls giggled and called him Tex because of his slightly bowed legs.

I always called him Evan.

Evan was a classy name, I thought, that matched this intriguingly handsome young man, who stood six feet tall. He was fair of complexion with hazel eyes that twinkled when he smiled. His curly, light-brown hair reflected blond highlights in the sunshine.

Girls who didn’t have a steady boyfriend were hoping he would ask to walk them home from school. I didn’t think I stood much of a chance, being the youngest girl in my class, and not even allowed to date yet. Surprisingly, one day after the third week of school, he fell in step with me on the way home, taking my books without asking.

Hi, my name is Evan, what’s yours? he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes as he smiled at me.

I’m Emily Allen, I replied, looking up shyly at him.

I’ve been watching you. You’re cute. I would like to get to know you better. It could make my return to Milledgeville more enjoyable. It’s really so boring here.

Then why did you come back if you think it’s so boring here? I asked, slightly offended by his put-down of my hometown.

You may say I was kicked out of New York City.

Who kicked you out? I asked innocently.

My mother, sort of, but it was my fault. I was getting in trouble all the time, so she decided to send me back to live with my grandparents before I got into real trouble.

What kind of trouble, Evan?

Oh, I was running with a wild crowd and smoking pot.

I vaguely knew what pot was, having heard my older brother, a merchant seaman home from Germany, refer to it as Mary Jane, reefer, and pot when speaking of entertainers or people who smoked it. Photos of a famous movie star were plastered across the pages of movie magazines and the papers because he was arrested for smoking pot. I knew it was illegal and something nice people were never supposed to touch. In spite of what Evan told me, I had an immediate affinity for him. He needed someone to listen and care about him, I thought. Evan continued to walk me home when he wasn’t playing football. At times, as he talked, telling me his problems and how much he missed his dad, the twinkle in his eyes was replaced by a misty haze.

We became good friends.

Evan and I only saw each other at school and church. My mother had a strict rule. Her daughters were not allowed to date before age fifteen, and then they were only allowed to receive company at home, under adult supervision. Evan joined the junior choir at Trinity C M E (Christian Methodist Episcopal) Church where we both attended, so he could see me more often at choir rehearsal. Whenever we were alone, he talked while I listened; my lending a sympathetic ear seemed to ease his worries.

One Saturday evening, during spring vacation, I was walking around downtown alone and purposely walked slowly past Mr. Sam McCombs’ tailor shop. Mr. McCombs was Evan’s grandfather and I knew that Evan spent most of his time on Saturdays working at the shop. Sure enough, Evan was there. He saw me walk by and rushed out to greet me.

Hi, come on in and visit with me for awhile, he said with a happy smile.

I didn’t know that he was alone until he had led me to the back of the shop, past the idle sewing machines and racks of garments waiting to be picked up. He pulled me into his arms and before I knew what was happening, his eager mouth was pressing my lips open. Because it was my first kiss, I didn’t know I should close my eyes. I looked up and saw a booger hanging out of his nose. I tried to pull away but it was too late. His wet, mushy kiss caught me full force. I tried to leave as gracefully as possible after I extricated myself from his embrace. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings but I couldn’t conceal the disillusionment in my eyes.

Evan and I remained friends but he didn’t try to kiss me again for a long time.

Near the end of May, Evan asked if he could visit me at my home. I said, Yes, but come on Sunday after dark.

I was nervous all that day.

My fifteenth birthday wouldn’t arrive until June, 11th so I still didn’t have permission to receive visits from boys. I was waiting outside when he came, and quickly stirred him to the green glider at the end of our long porch, where I hoped we would not be seen. My father died when I was twelve; my mother was living in the country, caring for my grandmother, now an invalid. I was living under the supervision of my married sister, Otealia, who continued to live in our house on Wall Street with her husband, Richard, and their two children. She was inside reading and the children were in bed. I knew when Otealia was reading she would not come back outside.

My brother, Louie, was still home from Germany, but he had left earlier to go out on a date. I was beginning to relax when Evan leaned over, fixed his alluring eyes on me and asked, Has anyone invited you to the prom yet?

I had hoped he would invite me but it was getting close to the deadline to declare an escort for the prom, so I accepted an invitation from Henry Stubbs, a boy who had had a crush on me since elementary school.

I lied and told Evan, No, I haven’t accepted an invitation yet.

Will you go with me? he asked.

Sure, I said, trying to appear nonchalant.

What kind of music do you like? Evan was asking, when I looked up to see my brother standing in front of us.

I was scared out of my wits. Brother was overly protective of me. I was afraid he was going to embarrass me by asking Evan to leave. Instead, he asked Evan for a light for his cigarette, and left. I let out a sigh of relief and Evan and I resumed our conversation.

First, I told Otealia that Evan had invited me to the prom, and she said it was all right for me to go with him.

The next day I saw Henry Stubbs at recess, and had no trouble telling him, I have changed my mind. I can’t go with you to the prom.

Why not? he asked, alarm rising in his voice.

I accepted an invitation from someone else, I said smugly.

How could you do that when you had already promised to go with me?

Sadness clouded his eyes but I was callous, saying as I turned to walk away, Well, I did.

Henry was handsome in a clean-cut way. His only fault was liking me too much. He had passed silly love notes to me in seventh grade that another student intercepted, read out loud and my classmates teased me about. I hadn’t been able to stand him since. I had only accepted his invitation because Evan took so long to ask me, and not having a date for the prom was a fate worse than death for most girls. I looked back and watched Henry walk away with his shoulders hunched dejectedly; I only thought about how I was going to be the envy of all the girls with Evan as my date.

Evan came by in broad daylight the next Sunday to ask what color dress I was wearing to the prom so he could select an orchid corsage of a matching color. I was so happy, I thought I would explode. A boy only bought an orchid corsage if he really liked you and thought you were special.

I was walking on cloud nine until the following week when the shit hit the fan. My brother-in-law, Richard, told Otealia of his personal knowledge that Evan smoked marijuana. My sister informed my mother who became highly upset.

Mama decided that because Evan was from a good family, and in fact his grandmother was related to her aunt Katie Steele by marriage, she had to handle the situation diplomatically. Her solution was to establish certain conditions under which I would be allowed to attend the prom with Evan. We would have to ride with an older cousin of mine who was a teacher but attending the prom with her boyfriend. Mama planned to speak to Mary Frances and explain that she was to act as chaperone, watching us in the car and at the prom.

To avoid the humiliation of being chaperoned like an infant and spoiling Mary Frances’ evening, I told Evan that I changed my mind, I didn’t want to go to the prom with him. He didn’t ask why and I never told him the reason.

My best friend, Lois, had a fight with her boyfriend— the captain of the football team—a week before the prom and their prom date was off. I fixed Lois up with my brother and invited a young man I barely knew. He was older and a high school drop-out who, according to the rules, shouldn’t have been allowed to attend, but because he was from a prominent family, the principal bent the rules. We rode with my brother and Lois.

At the last minute, Evan was only able to get the most unattractive girl in school—who also had a bad reputation—for his date. It was traditional to dance the last dance with the one you came with. When Stardust was played, signaling the end of the prom, Evan headed straight for me. We danced the last dance together. That was the only good thing I remember about my first prom.

My junior prom was the night from hell!

I hated my dress, a full-skirted, moss green number with big puff sleeves that Mama had selected. We had gotten into a major disagreement— the only one I remember ever having with my mother—over that dress. She refused to even consider the one I liked, saying it was too grownup for me.

On the way home from the prom, my date started pawing me in the backseat while my brother was driving. I used all the strength I could muster to keep pushing him away. I was too ashamed to tell my brother what my date was doing. We took Lois home first and then the car broke down. I thanked God for His divine intervention as my brother and I trudged wearily up Liberty Hill toward home together, while my date hiked home in the opposite direction.

Evan graduated in June of 1950 and immediately enlisted in the Paratrooper Division of the Air Force. He wrote to me and sent a picture of himself in uniform. When he arrived home for his first furlough at Thanksgiving, he came directly to my house from the bus station. As fate would have it, my sister was on her way to pick up my great-aunt Gertrude for dinner when he arrived. We had a little time alone. I was fifteen and could receive company now but being alone with a boy was another matter.

We kissed and I discovered that his technique was much improved. He was even more handsome than I remembered. His khaki trousers with razor-sharp creases were tucked into his impeccably polished combat boots. I thought I had fallen in love.

I think about you all the time, Evan said. I’ve been thinking about how it would be to have a wife and family. Do you think we could make a marriage together work?

I plan to go to college when I finish high school in June. So marriage isn’t in my immediate future.

What are you going to major in?

Oh, I’m not sure. I’ve been thinking about interior decorating.

I think I will enroll in college myself as soon as I’m discharged.

At this point in our conversation, my sister returned with Aunt Gertrude, who took one look at Evan and didn’t even say hello. As she walked through the living room where we were sitting, and into the dining room, she said loud enough for him to hear, That child is driving her ducks to a bad pond.

Evan left shortly after they arrived, and though he said he would see me before he returned to Fort Bragg, I never saw him again.

He wrote to me when he returned to the base, and sent a Christmas gift, a beautiful, gold-plated compact, trimmed with a bell made from rhinestones. I sent him a cigarette lighter with his initials engraved on it.

We had a dusting of snow in January of 1951—only the second time I had ever seen snow. I watched from my window as the pure white snowflakes drifted gently to the ground. Then I went outside to catch the diamond-shaped crystals on my tongue. The beauty of the snow was magically romantic and I wanted to share the moment with Evan. I went inside and wrote him a poem that said in part:

The snowflakes are pure and untarnished like our love but while the snowflakes quickly melt and disappear, our love will last forever.

My first and only fight in school was over Evan. I was walking home from school one day with the most popular clique of girls at Carver High; a group that I had kind of pushed my way into out of a desire to be popular. I was running my mouth loud enough for everyone to hear.

Evan sent me the most beautiful gift for Christmas. He asked me to marry him when he was home Thanksgiving, I bragged.

A girl named Reba, who was a popular member of the clique, rushed up and shouted at me, E. K. Walker isn’t even your boyfriend. He goes with my cousin, Marie. He spent his last furlough with her.

Then Reba shoved me hard.

I regained my balance, and retaliated with an uppercut to Reba’s jaw that knocked her on her butt. She got up laughing, trying to save face, while one of her friends pretended to hold her back. She moved back to the end of the line and I gained new respect from the group, which I no longer cared about. I never liked to fight, but I knew from a prior experience as a child, if provoked to anger, my adrenaline started flowing fast and I became very strong.

Evan’s letters began coming further and further apart. I eagerly opened the mailbox everyday looking for a letter from the XV111 Airborne Corp, Fort Bragg, North Carolina. By April, his letters had stopped altogether and I was heartbroken. Fortunately, the heart heals fast at age fifteen.

When my senior prom rolled around in May of 1951, I had found someone else to like if not love. The senior prom was great, minus the drama of the previous year, thanks to Charles (Pinky) Brantley.

I graduated from high school in June and decided to attend Central State College in Wilberforce, Ohio. The day I arrived at the Greyhound Bus Station to leave for college, Frank Pearson, a former schoolmate of mine was returning to Kentucky State. As we rode north together, Frank told me that Evan had been at the bus station just before I arrived but lost his nerve and left when he heard I was coming. He said Evan had wanted to see me but was ashamed of the shoddy way he had treated me over the Thanksgiving holidays. According to Frank, Evan had spent most of his furlough on Factory Hill, smoking pot and consorting with prostitutes. He told Frank that he